David Coe - Shapers of Darkness

“Yes,” he whispered. “I know.”

“Good.” The barkeep grinned again, and removed his hand from the cup. “Enjoy your ale, cousin.”

He stood, but before he could start back toward the bar, someone appeared in the doorway. It was a Qirsi man, one Pillad didn’t know. His eyes were wide, and though his hair and clothes were drenched, he didn’t seem to care.

“They’ve started it!” he said. “They’re fighting out on the bay!”

Pillad heard fear in his voice, and uncertainty. This man wasn’t with the movement, or if he was, he didn’t understand how eager the Weaver had been for this war to begin.

The minister and the barkeep shared a look. Then they both followed the man out into the storm.

It was a short walk from the tavern to the Galdasten quays where they could watch the warships struggling to flank each other. A crowd had already gathered, and with the wind blowing cold off Falcon Bay, driving a stinging rain into his eyes, Pillad could barely make out what was happening. It wasn’t long, though, before he heard a groan go up from the others, and he knew that the empire’s fleet had drawn first blood.

“They haven’ a chance agains’ those Braedony ships,” he heard one man say.

And another added, “There’s jus’ too many of ’em. If we had the Wethy fleet with us, maybe. But no’ like this.”

“You’d best be getting back to your duke, cousin,” the barkeep said, his voice low, his mouth so close to Pillad’s ear that the minister could feel his breath. “If the duke’s first minister is seen in Galdasten City as the realm is going to war, it’s certain to raise questions.”

Pillad nodded and began to back away from the crowd. More people had gathered behind him, and he had to push his way through the throng. The rain and wind helped; with his hair and clothes soaked, and his breath stinking of ale, he hardly looked like the most powerful Qirsi in the dukedom. In just a few moments he was free of the crowd. Leaving the quays, he followed the quickest route through the city and back toward Galdasten Castle. The duke’s guards were still following him, watching from byways and narrow lanes, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. If he tried to return to the castle by way of some obscure, winding route, it would draw even more attention to the fact that he had been in the city. Best to be seen, to endure the sneers of Renald’s guards. All of them knew that the duke no longer confided in him; one didn’t have to be a genius to notice that. Perhaps they already knew that he was drinking.

He faltered in midstride, his innards turning to water. Renald’s spies might already have seen him ordering the Thorald golden, spending his gold in the White Wave like a drunken noble.

If they knew you were a traitor, they’d have hanged you by now, or they’d be torturing you in the dungeons, demanding the names of others in the movement . He knew it was true, but he found no comfort in the thought. Was it pride to prefer torture and execution to indifference?

A woman bearing a basket of sodden cloth hurried past, staring at him as though he were mad. Pillad realized that he was standing in the middle of the lane by the marketplace, allowing himself to be doused by the rain. Drawing attention to himself yet again.

Did he want to be caught? he wondered, continuing on toward the castle. Was he that desperate to feel that he mattered? And though he understood instantly that he had no desire to be imprisoned or killed, he also knew that he needed to be more than what he had become. It sobered him, as if purging his body of the ale he had downed in the tavern. By the time he reached the north gate of the castle, his mind was clear. One of the guards raised an eyebrow at the sight of him, but the first minister no longer cared. He returned to his chamber, changed his clothes, and went in search of the duke.

The duke’s men refused to allow him entry to Renald’s chamber, saying something about the duchess being with him. Pillad would have liked to laugh at them-as if the duchess being with the duke were cause for closed doors and hushed voices. She hadn’t loved him in years. No doubt she was telling him how he ought to deal with the coming siege and Kearney’s pleas for help.

He climbed the nearest of the towers, intending to watch the battle, but upon reaching the ramparts, he saw Ewan Traylee standing at the wall, staring out at the bay. There had been a time when Pillad and the swordmaster got along quite well. They were never truly friends, but in a land where sorcerers and soldiers were often at odds, they had worked together on their duke’s behalf, eventually coming to respect one another. Or so the first minister had thought. For when Renald began to question Pillad’s loyalty, Ewan stopped speaking to him as well. True, the swordmaster had merely been following the duke’s example, but still, it stung.

Pillad turned to go back down the stairway, moving silently lest Ewan should notice him.

“First minister!”

Pillad took a breath, then turned. “Forgive me, swordmaster. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Not at all. Join me.” Ewan faced the bay once more, his expression bleak. “You heard that the fighting had begun?”

“Yes. I was in the city.”

Ewan looked over at that.

No sense in lying to the man. Perhaps candor could regain some of the trust he had lost. “I frequent a tavern there. The duke has little use for me anymore, and I prefer to be outside the castle.”

The swordmaster nodded, his gaze returning to the warships. “These are difficult times, First Minister. Many of us are frightened. None of us knows who to trust anymore.”

“You include yourself in that.”

“Yes.” The man’s grey eyes flicked Pillad’s way for just an instant. “I’m sorry. You’ve done nothing to raise my suspicions, but I have them just the same.”

“Because I’m Qirsi.”

“Yes. All Qirsi are suspect now. Surely you understand that.”

“Of course I do,” he said, and meant it. Abruptly, he knew what he would do, what he had to do. The Weaver would be angry with him, as would Uestem. The risk to all of them was great. But he couldn’t go on this way. War had come to Galdasten, and even Pillad, who knew little of such things, could see that the Eibitharian fleet was being decimated by Braedon’s ships. If he wished to be of use to the Weaver and his movement, he needed to win back Renald’s trust. Quickly. He could think of only one way to do so. “I understand perfectly well, swordmaster. That’s why I went to speak with the duke just now, but his soldiers wouldn’t allow me in to see him.”

Ewan looked at him again. “I don’t follow, First Minister. Has something happened?”

“I’m afraid it has. I should have come to you sooner. I see that now. I’ve suspected for some time, but I couldn’t prove anything.”

“Suspected what?”

“You have to understand, swordmaster, I have no desire to be hated by my people, nor do I wish this man ill. But I can’t ignore what’s happened.”

“First Minister, please!” the swordmaster said, his patience clearly wearing thin. “Tell me what’s happened.”

Pillad swallowed, as if deeply troubled by what he was about to say. Actually, for the first time in so long, he was enjoying himself. Let him think twice about speaking to me as if I’m some common Qirsi juggling flames in the Revel or serving drinks in his little tavern .

“As I said a moment ago,” he began, resting his hands on the stone wall, lowering his gaze, “I’ve spent a good deal of time recently at a tavern in the city. It’s called the White Wave, and it’s a Qirsi establishment. I’ve noticed the barkeep there eyeing me strangely at times, as if he wished to speak with me. Today he finally approached me. He asked me why I spent so much time in his tavern, why I wasn’t with the duke. I told him to mind his own affairs, but then he told me that he’d heard some saying I’d lost the duke’s confidence.”